The Morning After
by Michael Donovan
Summary: A young man recovers from a rough night out on the town.


THE MORNING AFTER 

Written by: Michael K. Donovan 

Greg rolled over in his bed, his entire body feeling like one giant bruise. He cracked his eyelids open and a razor's edge of sunlight stabbed into his sensitive eyes. Swiftly covering his face with a thin pillow, he lurched blindly and made a desperate grab for the release on his venetian blinds. The strips of beige plastic fell into place with a clatter, cutting off the stinging light and plunging his bedroom back into comforting gloom. 

As peaceful as the darkness was, it only lessened the agony he was experiencing by a fraction. His skull throbbed relentlessly and his throat was dry and swollen. Where had he been last night? A club? A bar? It was hard to remember, his mind was as clouded and dull as his vision. 

Inhaling deeply, he rolled onto his back and tried to remain as still as possible. His stomach would probably hold, but only if he could be careful with it long enough for it to settle itself. Rubbing his clammy palms together, he pressed them to the mattress and sat up slowly. 

The whole world seemed to shift and bend and his stomach quivered threateningly in response to the jostling. A flash of memory washed over his brain, filling his senses with recent near-forgotten experience. He was in a dark, mysterious place, surrounded by pulsing music and the warmth and closeness of hundreds of club-goers. Lips. He remembered a pair of plush, crimson lips, stained with alcohol, that had tugged insistently on his. And a mouth drawing on flesh, drawing, draining. As quickly as it had come, the sensation passed and he was back in his bed again. 

Breathe, he told himself, just breathe and let the fresh air straighten everything out. After a few cleansing breaths and a moment of tense stillness, his stomach calmed again. Good. The only thing he could imagine worse than his current state of health was vomiting in his current state of health. 

Smacking his lips together noisily, he eased off the edge of the bed and rose to his feet with a groan. What had he been drinking last night? Lighter fluid? His tongue felt like it had a coating of fuzz on it that was an inch thick. Kind of coppery, like bad whiskey. How long had it been since his drink of choice had been whiskey? 

Stretching the kinks out of his back, he scratched his stomach sleepily and found himself faced with a difficult decision. To the left of the entrance to his apartment was a small kitchenette, barely big enough to contain an old refrigerator, a stove and a few empty cupboards. To the right, the door to his bathroom hung slightly ajar. The question was which to do first. Purge fluids or replenish them. 

Greg let thirst overpower the pressure in his bladder. Liquid intake was likely his best bet to help diminish the thundering pain in his head. Lumbering into the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge door and reached for a tall plastic pitcher on the door. Tilting it back, he gulped greedily, swallowing entire mouthfuls without even tasting. How could a person be so thirsty after drinking so much? 

As the cool, pulpy liquid poured down his throat, another wave of memories came back to him, racing over his synapses and whisking him into the past. She was struggling with him, attempting to fight down a surprising burst of strength from him. He had taken a risk by following her out into the alleyway behind the bar, but something about the woman had called to him, mesmerizing him from the moment he had laid eyes on her. It had been an irrevocable mistake, he was sure, but he had no recollection of why. 

With a tired gasp, he thumped the near-empty pitcher on the counter and leaned heavily on the open refrigerator door for a moment, letting the cool air spill out across his bare feet. 

The side of his neck was stiff and sore, he realized absently, rotating it slowly in an attempt to ease the tightness. He had probably slept wrong on it. But what was one more ache when every bone in his body was wracked with dull agony? Tottering around the corner into the bathroom, he stooped before the shallow sink and ran the cold water, dousing his face with doubled handfuls. The chill water was refreshing, shrinking the swollen membranes of his sinuses and easing the pressure in his head a little. Bracing his hands on the corners of the porcelain, he lifted his face and looked into a mirror that refused to return his reflection. Everything else was there, the shower curtain, the toilet, the shaded window, even the ugly yellow wallpaper, but it was like Greg had turned completely invisible. He stared regretfully into the blank mirror, curling his lip back and gingerly reaching up to touch his finger to the pointed tip of an elongated canine. 

In a rush of sensation, it all came back to him. The bar, the girl, the drinks, all of it. He should have known better. For years he had been warned, but never paid it any heed. God, every time he turned on the TV, there was some spot playing on responsible drinking or safe socializing. Certainly not intended to target his particular predicament, but poignant nonetheless. There was no reason why he shouldn't have known better. 

With a remorseful groan, he squeezed a blob of minty toothpaste onto his toothbrush and shoved it into his mouth. One way or another, one of these days, he would learn never to drain the blood of a girl who had been drinking. 


End file.
